


And Then –

by Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (so. many. internal. monologues), Angst, Barcelona album, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Caregiving, Corporeality, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fluff, Garden Lodge family, Graphic Depictions of Illness, HIV/AIDS, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Hurt/Comfort, Innuendo album, Internal Monologue, Internalized Homophobia, Late Stage AIDS, M/M, Made in Heaven album, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poetry, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28587990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness
Summary: The note soars—hopeful turned mournful. A dove spanning the sky. There are no lyrics, there's nothing left to say. Listen to my heart, I bled the notes, this is dangerous love. This is what happens, beware: heartbreak, redemption, heartbreak. Exercises in free love.A story of love and Freddie's last years.
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury, Winnie Kirchberger/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19
Collections: JimercuryWeek2021





	1. Chapter 1

_The heart asks pleasure first  
And then excuse from pain –  
And then – those little anodynes  
That deaden suffering – _

_And then to go to sleep –  
And then – if it should be  
The will of its Inquisitor,  
The liberty to die._

– Emily Dickinson


	2. Chapter 2

_The heart asks pleasure first_

Lights wash bodies in colour. The music is pounding, and throngs of men are dancing to it, hearts vibrating with the beat. They are not swaying. Here exist, under low lighting, strange creatures driven by pleasure. And so they move—grinding, arching, stepping together—in the electric pulse of the place. The air is wet with sweat, a tinge of sex, something animalistic. It’s not the sort of place he wants to be, at least not ultimately...

But for the express purpose of ridding himself of loneliness, boredom, whatever the hell is wrong with him, it works perfectly. He throws himself into the crowd and finds someone handsome, someone big and strong. All it takes is a look, maybe a whisper in the ear, and then you dance. Though this isn’t the Grand Dance—not the dawning of love, or success. This dance is more like a mating ritual of sorts, only one completely contrary to biology.

He laughs in the face of everything he was created for—which was nothing. He’s hardly handsome, and it was evident from his disposition even at the age of twenty-two that a nine-to-five and a wife were laughable ideas. This, however, this suits him just _fine_. He can flit from one to the other as he pleases: when one is boring, it’s up and move to the next, no feelings to worry about hurting. It’s expected. It’s rather the point, in fact.

And so, they get quite close and what should be whispers are shouts over the loud music—all the boring things: what’s your name, come here often, looking for someone? and to that end, the important question: how big’s your cock? Direct and sometimes taken as a joke, it’s everything it needs to be: efficient. Don’t like, move on, or…

There’s usually an empty room, a hallway, a darkened corner—nothing’s scandalous here, is it? Aren't they all just perverts?

He hates living up to the moniker, but it’s been a long night.

It feels more like a habit, a reflex to follow the man. There's no thought anymore, not for this. The music is loud, so loud, something he should be used to from years of ear-splitting rock shows, but it's somehow different here—more shocking, more jarring, _closer_. Here, the music heralds what's to come: the equal chance of pain or pleasure. He brushes past more couples clad in leather, some half undressed; he feels sweat and smells musk. Farther and farther— _get down, make love._

He was terribly innocent then. Love doesn't exist here. Not that he wants that now. No, only this, only _sex_. The man is nearly on him...

Except he just can’t. Not now, not here, not like _this,_ with the loud music and rough hands and only need as motivation.

He shoves him off hard, disentangles the hand from his wrist and ignores indignant mutters, the yelling, the cursing—colourful words for coward, all pointed at his fleeing figure. It’s a rush to the door and up the narrow stairs and out into the night air. Even with the city fumes, it’s better than in there. He’s trembling to the tips of his fingers. There is fear of a threat, of the headlines announcing death after death, tangled in his reasons for running away. He can’t acknowledge that. It takes a few very long, very deep breaths before he can move. The car is parked down the block—not far—in fact he can see it, light glinting from the mirrors. He thinks briefly of Paul, Joe, and the others tagging along, but it’s a very strong ‘fuck them’ that comes to mind. He’s got to get out of here.

The driver sees him coming in the rearview mirror and so the door is open and he climbs in, slams it after himself.

“Where’s the rest?”

“Never mind them, to the hotel.”

And the car pulls away from the pavement, drives further away from the mass of entangled men, and Freddie sinks down in the seat.

He’s tired of the whole game. His old lyrics, his old hopes, mock him, as they so often do, and his stomach twists, sharp and familiarly unsettling, at the thought. There’s got to be more than chasing lust. Love, a relationship—what a dream! That’s hardly possible in this world, don’t you know? Don’t be naive. Men want the next best thing, something easy and quick. And you? You’re a mockery to women and men alike—too fragile for either to care. Having your cake and eating it too? Forget it!

There will be no tears in the back of this car. That’s a solid rule. Screaming is allowed, fights are allowed, bruising kisses are (occasionally) allowed, but crying is out of the question. So he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood—that’s the only pain he’s getting tonight, not even worth it—until the hotel is in sight.

“Go back and wait for the others,” is all he says as he gets out.

They’ll still be there—until the early hours definitely, and then probably off to somewhere else. He knows this well enough, and for once it’s useful for a different reason: he knows how long he’ll have some peace and quiet. Phoebe had better be in—he’s in desperate need of a good cup of tea and one of those horrid telly programmes the man’s so fond of.

His room key, he realises, is with Paul. Fan-fucking-tastic. Phoebe _really_ needs to be in now. He knocks on the door—or more accurately, bangs like a desperate whore in need of shelter—until he hears movement inside.

“Phoebe? That you?” His voice is wavering tellingly, he knows, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Phoebe is too kind to bring it up, a small saving grace.

The lock is turned and the door is opened. There’s the saviour, home to greet him.

“You’re back soon.”

“The others were terribly boring, darling.”

Phoebe does the mother hen act all the way to the sitting room: pulling off his jacket, smoothing his hair, fetching a dressing gown.

“Now, a cuppa’s in order. No arguments, Freddie!”

Sweet man, pretending he would turn one down. It makes Freddie smile.

He collapses on the sofa, any energy he had left vanishes. He curls in on himself around his still pained stomach. His muscles protest the position. Everything aches after double-night performances and spending every night out clubbing. Not that he’s getting old, certainly not, only a bit worn down. Touring does that to the best and _he_ is far superior to the best.

All settled—Phoebe comes in with a tray of tea and biscuits, enough for both of them.

“Hope you don’t mind, was expecting a night to myself and all—“ the man pauses to take a bite of biscuit, “There’s some programme I wanted to watch. Funny Americans—their telly’s even worse than the BBC, would you believe it?”

“Only the Americans, darling,” Freddie sighs, simultaneously consenting to Phoebe’s choice and answering the question. Phoebe chuckles, and switches on the set. Freddie reaches for a mug of tea and tastes it—perfection, as usual. He’s in a particularly generous mood tonight and he smiles over at Phoebe.

“Always make the best tea—I can’t stand anyone else’s now! Even ruined Roger’s tea, you bastard!”

Again Phoebe laughs, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t keep me around just to hold your hand on planes, now would you?”

“I’d keep you around for tea alone. I think I do, actually—Phoebe! What fucking rubbish are we watching?”

“That's an advert—Surprisingly, I don’t spend all my time glued to the telly.”

“Of course not, I was only joking, dear!” Freddie sounds desperate to his own ears, trying to soothe the inadvertent jab. He was only joking, really. Only a bit of fun.

“I know, Freddie, I know.”

The people on television are babbling away, incessantly picture-perfect families all made for a public of puritans. The country that banned their video—it was all a joke, and where did it get them? More fucking press for him, of course. More rumours, more stories. He tries not to pay attention to the yellow press. Thinking of it calls back the early days: when he was young and in love, hopeful for fame…

The other side of the longing though—you mustn't forget, though now you just fuck it away: the utter evil. Try finding love when you’re the devil—you’ll be feared by everyone, save for the sinners themselves. All these years doing repulsive things, paying no mind to the truth of the matter.

_Thousands of men dead. All gay._

That is terrifying. He won't tell anyone he’s afraid, certainly isn't going to _stop._ It’s too late, must be, it’s hardly possible that it’s not. How many men?

In a night? The record’s six—that he remembers.

Blood and come, pain and pleasure—a circle for years and years –

It’s only a fact and he doesn't regret it. Why should he? He’s certainly not perfect, doesn't try to be, and doesn't fool anyone deliberately. There's a line there that he will not cross. A shred of honesty to cling to—the rest of his life is something of a sham. For the same reason, he doesn't write songs like Lennon or criticise Brian’s questionable decisions—Freddie’s got no room to comment; he’s hardly going to be a hypocrite. No hypocrisy, no lies, (almost) no deception. Which is more than he can say for the programme on the telly—or Americans in general!

It might be madness coming to America _now_ of all times… though it wasn't entirely his idea. Rather it was Paul saying, "You deserve a bit of fun after all that work in Munich; the Mineshaft’s closing, I hear—wouldn’t you like going there one last time?"

The continued cajoling, “Never mind what’s happening… pay it no mind, not a thought—what harm can come from a bit of fun? Just drinks—and the pills you like. You can’t worry about that! Your friends will certainly want to see you—look at how you’ve left them behind.”

There turned out to be only parties and scraped acquaintances—his New York daughters all occupied with work and sick friends. If he believed in omens, this one might count.

It takes a sip of tea to dislodge the silly lump in his throat. There’s nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing. He’s seen those headlines: the man upstairs is the one killing you; this illness is specific punishment for your perversion. That’s absurd, it can't be true… if it is –

No, there’s not a thing wrong—not with him. All he needs is… someone. Anyone.

There's Winnie, but does that count? Depending on a translator is hardly an indicator of long term success, no matter how romantic having a burly, German husband sounds. And Winnie scarcely protested being left behind while he went on tour...

This is all a tiresome round of thinking. Today he does not want to consider his failures. It’s freezing in here and his leg has begun to ache.

“Darling, could you get me a blanket or turn the heat up? It’s fucking freezing in here.”

Phoebe nods and he catches a fleeting look of worry in his eye—as if he’s due to keel over any minute. Probably just worry weighing on Phoebe’s mind, too. There can't be a soul who isn't worried. Putting it out of your mind hardly makes it disappear—an age-old truth.

He hears the heater kick in, and then Phoebe is coming back with blankets piled in his arms.

“Thank you, dear. My leg’s aching again. The doctors might be saying it’s all healed, but it hardly feels like it!”

“Maybe if you stayed off it a bit and actually rested—”

“And miss the fun? Don't be ridiculous, I'm not an old lady yet!”

Phoebe doesn't answer, only throws a blanket over him, then adds another, and another. Well, that certainly isn't merited! He’s spritely as a spring chicken. Just because he’s stayed in for the night doesn't mean…

Freddie hears steps outside in the corridor and inhales sharply—please, no, not now.

“Phoebe!” His voice is pitched sharp with alarm.

“Here they come, disturbing the peace—and just when I was having a quiet night in, as well! For a minute I was finally all alone.” Phoebe says, with a wink. “I’ll just go and fend them off, all right?”

He nods frantically. He doesn't want to explain himself—humiliating, acting like some twink new to the scene—and Paul isn't one to let something go at ‘I was tired’. Probably furious as hell at being left there on his own. He really should have said something: he could have lied, spared himself the trouble. He hadn't thought it through, just felt alarm and _run_. Bad move.

Phoebe is opening the door. He wants to look, but doesn't dare, the anxiety of Paul seeing him now—small and afraid, and trying desperately to hide it.

“Hey, Paul.”

“Peter.”

“Have you seen Freddie?”

“No, why?”

“Lost him at the club, then. Probably went off with someone, you know what he’s like. He left his key with me—absent minded… but, here, if he comes back tonight!” Paul laughs, “Banging at all hours, I don't envy you.”

There’s some muttering then, still Paul, but he can't make it out, no matter how much he strains his ear. Phoebe’s not saying a word—just standing there.

Paul laughs again, “Well, good night, you stodge!”

The door is shut and Freddie finally hazards a look over the back of the sofa. Phoebe’s still standing there, still facing the door. Is something wrong?

“Phoebe?”

The man turns around, only a pleasant smile on his face.

“Forgot your key?”

“Oh, dear, must have! Forgot to ask Paul for it.”

Phoebe doesn't seem to know what to say to that, but the man won't press him on any of this. He’s not the intrusive sort.

“More tea?”

“Not quite yet, dear.”

“Have you eaten, then?”

“Oh, stop pestering me!” It's a light admonishment, more of a joke, but he can't eat, not right now, not feeling as wound up as he is—it would only go to waste. “No, I’m just going to rest. Take the night off, don't mind me, dear.”

“If you’re sure… you’ve enough blankets?”

Freddie just nods from under the ostentatious pile on top of him: more would only be excessive.

Phoebe settles back into the armchair and turns the volume on the set up a bit. He pulls the biscuits closer to him and takes one. It’s terribly domestic, the only thing missing is the ever elusive spark of romance. There’s no longing for it, though, at this precise moment, and Freddie lets himself relax. The room is warm, and the blankets should ward off the persistent chills. Now quiet and calm, Phoebe’s steady presence beside him, he lets the telly’s noise drift through, lets his eyes grow heavy.

-

A fit of coughing—a cold, damn… or too many cigarettes.

The metallic taste of blood—not such a little cold, then.

(The mirror offers reassurance when he doesn't see any lesions.)


End file.
